Nothing2
by LordDerrick
Summary: Closed2


**Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling owns it all, and I make no money from it.**

**A/N: After so many people talked about the way _By the Grace of God _turned out, I decided to listen. For the past few months, I have been crafting the rewrite. What started as simple changes turned out to completely redefine the story. What you see in the next few paragraphs is the beginning of what I call a masterpiece of literary achievement - at least as far as Harry Potter fan fictions are concerned. I beg you to be patient with this; for, what will unfold will make it all worth it. In return, I swear to work hard to update as soon as possible and thrill you with twists and turns like you have never experienced. So, without further ado, I give you...**

**Requiem for the Damned**

_**Chapter One**_

The silence swam around him mockingly. It was almost as if the dank, lonely cell knew who he was and the crimes he had been charge with committing. But that couldn't be true, could it? Brick and stone do not breathe, do not think. They could not know. Then again, in the wizarding world, things are never as they should be.

Wizarding world… He latched onto that thought. Yes, wizard… That's what he was: a wizard. Even the dark cell could not rob him of that; even after ten years, it could not take away his identity. It could not destroy who he was, not permanently.

For the first time in several years, the wretched, pathetic shell of a man remembered who he was. Cold green eyes peered between locks of matted, slimy black hair and stared out between the bars of his cell deep within the walls of Azkaban prison. Every detail returned to him; every moment of agony and torturous betrayal that had led him to ten years of suffering locked behind bars on an isolated island far from civilization. He remembered…

Quirrell. Quirinus Quirrell. His victim.

Wait, that wasn't right. Not a victim. He was the victim. He hadn't murdered Quirrell. The spirit of the Dark Lord had possessed the professor. He was just defending himself from the Dark Lord's attacks. He hadn't meant to…

But no one believed him. They said that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, was dead. Dumbledore tried to argue on his behalf, but they didn't want to believe the truth. Their fear clouded their judgment.

And Snape. Professor Snape.

The potions professor had claimed that Quirrell was only trying to stop anyone from taking the Sorceror's Stone, trying to defend from the very darkness that possessed him. That testimony gave the court all they needed to ignore the truth. It gave them the scapegoat they needed to explain the events… the sacrifice for the common good… the sacrifice in the form of one who had already lost so much… it gave them…

Harry Potter. The Boy-who-lived. Him. Now, he was in Azkaban.

_No!_

The air in the cell suddenly thinned and dried. Harry Potter stood, bones cracking and creaking as they were extended after years of disuse. Ragged, torn grey robes fell around him, hanging down to his bare feet. His muscles shouldn't work at all. By now, they should be atrophied. He should at least feel pain, discomfort. He felt nothing.

Nothing but rage.

Harry Potter raised his hands in front of his face. The dim twilight that leaked into his cell outlined the silhouette of scabbed, filthy skin. He flexed his fingers. They responded with slow, rhythmic movements that were stiff but effective. He stretched the fingers apart as far they would go then reached deep down inside himself to the shell that he had hidden within the past ten years. With a force of will he shoved that shell to the forefront, against the walls of his mind, and watched as it shattered. As it broke, blue-white lightening flickered between his fingertips, sizzling as it arced under his control.

No, he would not be a prisoner. He had secrets, secrets buried so deep that no one at Hogwarts ever knew, secrets so deep that he had forgotten, secrets that would tear the wizarding world apart.

Harry thrust his hand forward. Surges of lightening exploded from his hands and shattered the cell's barred door in a burst of shrieking metal. He smiled and stepped between the smoldering ruins.

_Free… Nothing can hold me._

No physical change made Harry stand out from how he looked only a few moments earlier. Nothing marked the incredible power he harnessed to destroy the door. Only the smell of melted metal and the hiss of escaping heat sizzling behind him gave any sign as to what had happened.

_Let them come._

He stood in the empty corridor and waited. He did not try to flee as most escaping a prison might. It was not his intention to escape. Escape meant hiding. It meant running. He would not run. The wizarding world would face him. They would face what they had made him into, and they would fear him.

Running was not an option.

_Drip… Drip…_

Water. It was the only noise. Nothing else dared to make a sound. The eerie silence was enough to grate on the nerves of even the most patient, and stoic of people, but Harry acted as though he did not notice the soft echo tapping against brick and stone as it puddled in some moldy, darkened corner. That was the furthest thing from the truth. He noticed it acutely.

He reveled in it.

Silence was his comfort. It was the blanket he wrapped himself in during those moments when the reality of his situation descended on him. Now, it was a reminder that he did not need people to survive. He did not have to rely on others to be there when he fell. He had learned young that even the most well meaning could do him harm. After all, the well meaning had garnered him a place in Azkaban without even realizing their error until too late.

Suddenly, he felt a tug on his mind and body, a draining that reached down to the core of his soul and tugged at the hopelessness hidden there. He smiled. His captors approached.

Raising a hand and taking a step to widen his feet, Harry reached out to the soft thrum of morbid power that permeated the corridor and seized with every ounce of will he possessed.

The first dementor glided around the corner, its tattered black robes billowing ominously around it. A groaning welled from within the shadowy hood and traveled the space between it and Harry, striking the Boy-who-lived with the cold chill of its soul-reaping power. Its bony, skeletal hands stretched out to grab him, but Harry was prepared.

White, hot lightening burst from his hands and ploughed into the dementor. Within the magic he poured every ounce of hatred and anger that had been building since he was a small child. Every memory of the Dursleys torturing him and every recollection of hours spent whimpering in a cold Azkaban cell boiled to a frothing roll and charged out of him, unleashing torrents of magical energy stronger than any that had visited Azkaban since its construction.

The bolts arced and bounced across the creature's body. The Dementor threw back what had to be its head and let forth a bloodcurdling scream that spread through the prison. But Harry was not done. He strode forward and grabbed the creature on each shoulder and pulled with every bit of strength he could muster. The Dementor struggled to regain control, to dislodge itself from the beast that grabbed it. Harry would not budge; he would not be denied. His eyes widened in a crazed madness, and he yelled, ripping his vocal cords as they were activated for the first time in almost a decade. It did not matter, because the sound that came from him was not of this world or the next. It existed only in a time and place of his making, of his creation, and from that creation he brought forth his strength.

A great tearing noise, wet and squishing, joined in his screams and in a burst of red-orange flames, Harry Potter ripped apart the Dementor with his bare hands. The Dementor corpse crumbled and faded in the flames.

Two aurors came around the corner just as Harry dropped the now empty Dementor robes. Shocked rippled across their features as they looked from the ruined robes and the Boy-who-lived. A golden light emanated from his skin as he stepped forward in long, quick strides as if neither the incarceration nor the exuberant amount of magic he had just used had affected him in the slightest.

The aurors brandished their wands, signaled for backup, and hurled spells at Harry. Both were advanced in their career. They were highly trained professionals with experience in taking down even the strongest of dark wizards, save for the Dark Lord himself. Both had seen action against inner-circle deatheaters. They could best most in single-handed combat. But this foe was different, and they knew it the second their eyes met his. Even in the heat of the battle they could not focus on his eyes, unable to bare the raging fire within them.

Harry saw the spells before they were coming. He could see the intent as the magic raced down the wand and knew how to stop them. They were not strong enough to stand against him. As the spells left the tips of the wands, he forced his will forward as if projecting it into a solid shield. The spells collided with it, and he felt them tugging at his awareness, trying to overpower the defense he had prepared, but they were weak compared to him. He ripped through the strands of errant magic like they were fireworks sent of by muggle children. They dissipated in showers of flashes that exploded around him as he walked forward.

The aurors panicked and dived. Neither had ever heard of magic like that.

Harry reached forward with his arms as the aurors tried to run and tightened his fist. He pulled the fist back towards him, and the aurors were yanked hard onto their backs. He held out a single hand, and their wands jumped into it.

Both aurors cringed, curled into a ball, and closed their eyes, awaiting the pain of their death, praying that God would protect their families from such a monster as the one before them. However, all they felt as Harry Potter walked by were the prickles of splintered wood as the remains of their wands rained down. After several endless minutes, when they finally dared to look up, Harry Potter was gone.

They did not know him. Like every other wizard or witch in the magical world, they had never taken the time to get beyond the rumors that defined the public image of the Boy-Who-Lived. In truth, he had never let them. He did not want to be known. He wanted to hide away from the world, to shed the burden they thrust on him. He wanted to be normal. To be human.

Human. A joke.

Humans could not dream to comprehend him. They were narrowed minded and empty. They lacked purpose other than twisted purposes that fulfilled their sickest base desires. His heart led him to other things, nobler things. And what had that got him?

Bound. He had been bound for his efforts.

His mind played over that word. Bound. Why had he not known before now? This power he held was so much a part of him, how could he have ignored it for twenty one years? He knew the answer immediately. The thing that had kept it from him had been the greatest of chains. And now he remembered every detail.

Clearly, he saw in his memories an old man towering over him, blue eyes twinkling with mirth and an aura of power pouring off aged, wrinkled skin. He saw the sad smile, the long, slender wand, and the spell that caused magic to leap from it. Then he felt the chains pulling around him; though, they were not chains that one could see from the outside. They pulled from within him; they constricted around his heart. His infant body let out a scream, and suddenly, a part of him disappeared, blinked out as if it never existed.

Again, the old man smiled the sad smile. "I'm sorry, my dear boy, but this is for the best. The wizarding world will never be ready for you. There are much larger destinies that you must fulfill."

Dumbledore. He had done this. All of this was because Dumbledore had taken from him his rightful legacy. He knew the truth now. The bonds were gone, and he knew his heritage; the magic had seen to that. Dumbledore's shadow games would be to no avail.

Harry Potter moved down the now empty corridors of Azkaban. Aurors hid in fear from his wrath while dementors fled from him on sight. He knew that some of his adversaries were preparing a counter-strike to keep him here, but he would not be stopped… Never again. None would ever raise a wand against him and prevail. He would crush his enemies with the iron grip of his will and remake the wizarding world as he saw fit, under his terms. His imprisonment would never be allowed to happen to another.

Beneath his feet, the old world would burn. From the ashes, he would raise his Eden.

Harry moved from floor to floor unopposed. He came to stairwells and took each step carefully, slowly. Azkaban was ancient. Once, it had been a fortress used by one of the darkest wizards to ever exist. From within the towering walls of Azkaban, darkness had once spread the world through the world so thoroughly that it still resonated in the minds of purebloods today, thousands of years later. His eyes were half-closed as he took in the power. He did not see where he was going, but the fortress spoke to him, guiding his feet along a safe path.

A lesser man might have been dominated by the power. He might have been corrupted like the dementors had been so many centuries ago when they had been soldiers under the ancient dark lord. Once, they had been great warriors; now, they were but hungry, mindless wraiths, little more than wisps of what they once were, all because a leader became too power hungry. All because their greed drove them to share in that power.

No, that would not happen to him. He did not crave power. He did not need to. Power was only a scale created by mortals. His understanding went beyond that. He contained the same amount of inherent power others did, but he knew things about magic that those others did not, things that set him leagues above them. He knew that power was relative. It did not matter how much a being had if they did not have the will to use it. And there was one thing Harry Potter had, he had the will, and he lacked the restraints to hold back his will. He did not have a mind full of predetermined notions, notions like those that Dumbledore had forced on his younger self. No, he knew what he was capable of doing.

Anything.

Finally, he reached Azkaban's entrance hall. There, amidst the great black marble columns and dark iron battlements, he encountered their resistance, their last ditch attempt to contain him. This would be the deciding moment. Now, he would determine his future. He looked out at the group of armored aurors standing between him and the door to Azkaban prison, the last prison he would ever enter, and he knew without a doubt that they were little better than the chains they tried to bind him with. Like those chains, they would not last.

Harry Potter held out his hand. The aurors, almost thirty strong, tensed. They raised their wands. One of the aurors at the forefront of the group straightened and called out. "Prisoner Potter, this is your only warning. Lie down on the ground with your hands on your head, or we will use lethal force to subdue you."

Harry tilted his head and studied the wizard. An auror captain, no doubt a veteran of wizarding battles. The scars he wore told Harry that much. "No," Harry replied simply.

The word was said normal, but it came out of Harry and increased in strength to the point that when it reached the aurors, they clutched their hands to their ears reflexively. Harry's fingers curled inward, and the large dark iron doors behind the aurors groaned and twisted before they were wrested from their hinges and brought soaring into the crowd of stunned aurors. The aurors scattered like ants beneath the massive doors, just barely managing to escape as the iron plates crashed to the floor.

Harry stepped forward. He made it half-way to the doorway before the first spell was fired. It crumbled into nothingness before it reached him. Ten followed, then twenty, and then all thirty wizards fired at once. All their spells stopped before they hit him, merely fading into non-existence. Harry continued to walk forward until he reached the doorway. There he stopped, turned, and looked back. He raised a hand once more and the iron doors lifted from the floor, straightened, and folded back in place, magically reattaching to the hinges. The doors closed with a bang that shook the fortress.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The aurors banged on the other side of the doors. Their fists and spells rattled the iron. Again, Harry reached out to the ambient magics flowing through Azkaban in raging currents. Unlike before, he did not take just a bit to do his task. No. This time he took it all. He took it all and forced it in on itself.

Everything stopped. Time stood still for just an instant, but in that instant the fabrics of reality bent. The earth rumbled. The North Sea stirred. The wind raged. Nature itself screamed against him.

The Boy-Who-Lived did not give in to the power. He braced his feet and stood against it. Then, with an agonizing scream, he pulled down the ancient wards surrounding the fortress-prison. The entire castle shifted, buckled, then exploded outward in a torrent of fire that shook the earth for miles around.

Amidst it all, the young wizard watched. He did not smile. He did not frown. No tear dropped for the dying and dead.

The deafening explosion and the loud crackling of fire played the only requiem the burning souls would receive. A requiem for the damned.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk at the Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The year was beginning in a month and he still had a great deal to do. Most of his summer had already been devoted to tracing Voldemort through his new hiding spots inside the lush forests of the Indus Valley. Many villagers had reported seeing a terrible spirit roaming the valley and possessing members of their families. More than one villager had been found left for dead, only a dry husk of a corpse remaining as the Dark Lord moved on to its next victim.

Dumbledore sighed and held his head in his hands, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. At 120 years, Dumbledore had seen more than most and dealt with more darkness than almost anyone alive. It was he who had contested Gellert Grindelwald's reign of terror, and it was he who had led the movement to resist the machinations of Lord Voldemort. Now, it was he who was forced again to deal with the rising tide that could only result in the Dark Lord's rebirth.

He knew that Voldemort was looking for something, a way to regain a body, and he knew that Voldemort had to be getting closer. The search had led the Dark Lord from Albania, through most of Eastern Europe, across the deserts of the Middle East, and finally to the birthplace of wizarding magic. Unfortunately, Dumbledore had no idea what, exactly, Voldemort could find there. And that, if anything, was the most terrifying aspect.

The old professor sighed and stroked his long silver beard. Still, it fell on him to ensure that the Dark Lord did not return. It was the only way left to contain Voldemort. If he were to regain his body, then the wizarding world would be facing the unrestricted power of a virtual immortal. The prophecy clearly linked Voldemort with Harry Potter, the boy he had failed to protect. Only Harry could kill him. But now the child rotted in Azkaban, most likely powerless and insane, while Dumbledore sat idly by, unable to act. His hands were tied. The courts had made their decision despite his fervent protests, and he could not oppose the courts. To do so would deny the authority of the government, and that could have any worse effects on the world than Lord Voldemort.

A soft knock on his office door brought him from his musings.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and sat up. He might be old and tired, but people still looked to him. He had to project the image of strength and courage. He was a rallying sign for the wizarding world in a time that was increasingly dark and horrible. It was a darkness that had very little to do with the stain of Lord Voldemort.

"McGonagall, Headmaster," one of the many portraits littering his wall whispered.

Dumbledore smiled and nodded in thanks. "Please, come in, Professor McGonagall."

The door creaked open and a woman with pulled back hair and overly stern eyes entered. She was shaking her head. "One day I will discover how you always know who is on the other side of this door, Albus."

The Headmaster smiled. "I have already told you more than once, my dear professor. It is magic." He stole a quick wink at the portrait that had spoken, but when McGonagall looked up at him, she saw only the ever-present twinkle glistening behind half-moon spectacles and the smile of a very amused old man.

She huffed and sat down. "Yes, yes, so you have said. Now, listen, I have something important to discuss. The Weasley twins-"

"-have my full confidence that they will make wonderful teachers."

McGonagall let out an exasperated sighed. "Albus, I know you have a soft spot for the Weasley family, but you can't expect those two to keep their act together long enough to create an effective learning environment. They will tear down the school brick by brick!"

Dumbledore held up his hand. "Yes, and I think-"

A buzzing from the fireplace interrupted his reply. Green flames spurred to life atop the pit. Almost instantly, a face formed in the flames. "Dumbledore!" the face yelled.

The Headmaster stared back at the excited face of the Minister of Magic and knew his night was about to get a lot busier than addressing the complaints of his dedicated deputy headmistress.

"Yes, Cornelius. I am here with Professor McGonagall. We were just discussing Fred and George Weasley. You know, they are the twin sons of Arthur Weasley, the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"I don't have time to talk about that, Dumbledore!" Cornelius Fudge blustered. "Were in a crisis, man! There's a massive security breach at Azkaban! The DMLE is getting distress calls left and right!"

Dumbledore's mood turned very somber, very suddenly. He stood and walked over to the fireplace with speed a man his age should not normally possess. "Which prisoner?"

Fudge gulped, his eyes panicked and wide. "Harry Potter!"

The Headmaster needed no more encouragement. He stepped into the flame, snuffing out the Minister's face, and said, "Minister's Office," activating one of the few floo locations connected to the Minister of Magic's personal fireplace.

In less than a second, he stood before a shaking and panicking Minister of Magic. "What happened?"

"Fire and flames," Fudge replied, his eyes wide. He shook his head slowly. "I-I don't understand. One moment the warden and I were talking, the next moment he screamed and his head was covered in flame. Not floo flames but real flames! Orange and blue. Suddenly, the floo just shut down and refused to reconnect."

Dumbledore did not answer at first. When dealing with politicians, he felt it best to carefully organize his words in order to cushion the blow of bad news. He sighed, buying time; for, he could not put things together in a soft presentation.

Finally, he placed a hand on the man's shoulder, swallowed, and lowered his gaze. "Azkaban has fallen."

* * *

**A/N: This is the beginning.**


End file.
